Chapter 149
Chapter 149
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 149
Chapter Title: Mimicked Voices
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The Cults assigned to the Angra-class high-speed escort vessel under the Mothership Battle Group were among the lucky ones.
Five days prior, they had been struck by psychic power heat rays fired by three demons and crashed onto an island.
This Saigil-08 planet was a nightmarish hellscape teeming with deadly creatures. For beings whose physical prowess fell short of even humans, survival here was no easy feat.
Had they plummeted onto the mainland, they wouldn't have lasted a single day.
"You think the rescue team's really coming?"
"Once this magnetic storm dies down, we can link up with the satellites. We just have to hold out until then."
Cults with horns of every shape and size huddled around a campfire, tearing into roasted fish. Some had a horn snapped off from the crash impact, while others had bandages wrapped tightly around their bodies.
They looked every bit the ragged remnants of a defeated force, but the eyes of all twenty-five burned with the fierce will to endure.
"The magnetic storm in the sky's weaker than yesterday."
"Comms gear's mostly fixed. Just short a few parts."
"Let's try again tomorrow morning. Tech officers, check if we can scavenge parts from the wrecked shuttles."
The Cults nodded at the orders from the warrior with goat-like horns.
"It's tough on everyone, but we have to hang in there. Many have departed under the guidance of providence, but our time hasn't come yet."
The Cults were a race blessed with psychic powers, but in this situation, those gifts offered little aid.
Most psychic techniques guzzled the user's energy. Wasting it on catching fish or picking fruit would drain them dry in moments, leaving them collapsed.
The warrior, fully aware of this, took pains to ensure the Cults moved within their limits.
The crew followed his lead, knowing his intentions—regardless of their own frustrations with the predicament.
Once their meal ended, they scattered to their assigned tasks. The warrior leader, refusing rest, roamed about helping his comrades.
Time passed, and the sixth night fell over the island.
The warrior had scouted the area and confirmed no dangerous beasts lurked. Still, unforeseen threats could strike in the dark, so they set watches.
With three on guard, the rest sank into deep slumber.
"Fire's dying down."
"Gonna take a leak. I'll grab some sticks on the way back."
One Cult grabbed his rifle and slipped into the woods.
"Whew, almost pissed myself."
A short distance from the campfire, he relieved himself. Tucking himself away, he gathered nearby branches.
This should do. As he turned to head back, a rustling reached his ears.
The crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot. He dropped the sticks and raised his rifle.
"Wh-who's there?"
No answer came. Another watchman heard his shout and rushed over.
"Why the yell?"
"Heard footsteps in the woods just now."
"What?"
The two watchmen aimed toward the sound, but the footsteps had vanished.
"Must've been nothing."
"Yeah?"
As they started back to the fire,
an unidentified noise teased their ears again. This time, it wasn't mere footsteps.
"You hear that?"
"……."
They held their breath, straining to listen.
Faint waves crashing beyond the trees, leaves rustling in the wind.
And then.
"Is anyone there?"
The small but clear voice belonged unmistakably to a female Cult. One of the survivors must have made it to this island.
"Wh-what do we do? Help her?"
"Hold up. Something's off."
They'd been here days, and the island wasn't vast enough to call a continent—just big enough for a half-day loop. No way they'd missed another Cult.
"We've been here for days. No other ships around."
"Maybe she came from elsewhere? In better shape than us, flew a shuttle?"
"That could be..."
Not impossible, but they'd overlooked something.
No shuttle engine hum, despite the dead of night.
"We need to stick together now! Hey! Over here!"
"Wait!"
Before his comrade could point it out, the Cult bolted toward the voice, yelling loudly.
"What're you two doing?"
"Heard a woman's voice from that way."
"What?"
The remaining watchmen hesitated but chose to wake the warrior instead of chasing. The voice felt too suspicious.
As they headed for the fire, a voice from the brush—their charging comrade.
"Hey! Help us out!"
"Huh?"
"Friends from the Jasvil-02 escort! No worries!"
"That's right! Had trouble flying the shuttle."
"Come help, please."
The voices from the brush weren't just one. Multiple shouts rang out simultaneously, suggesting a group arrival.
No threat in their running comrade's tone—just joy at meeting kin after so long.
"Weird. No shuttle noise."
"Guess we missed it. Let's check it out."
The last two watchmen relaxed and pushed through the brush, following the voices.
The island's trees weren't towering, but night cloaked everything. Even with rifle lights, non-combatants navigating the dark woods wasn't easy.
As if sensing this, timely voices guided them.
"This way!"
"Here! Here!"
"Almost there!"
Almost as if desperate to keep them from getting lost.
They emerged from the woods onto the beach. Amid sand deeply gouged by waves stood a lone female Cult in reinforced armor.
"What? Where's everyone else?"
The watchman got no reply. She just stared blankly.
The multiple voices from moments ago? Gone. No shuttle either.
As suspicion dawned,
one watchman peering at the surging waves sensed wrongness.
'Huh?'
Waves should crash ashore but smacked into... nothing, halting midair.
The instant he realized the unnaturalness, a strange stench hit.
A faint, eerie odor permeated the air—fundamentally unlike salty sea brine, utterly foul.
Not just him; his comrade backed away. His gaze fixed on the woman's shadow, solitary on the sand, her face unnaturally eerie.
Following it, the first Cult's hackles rose.
He'd thought the wet sand black, but no.
All that black sand before them was shadow.
"Leaving?"
The woman's form shimmered like heat haze. Shadows writhed in sync.
And voices.
"Where you going without us?"
"Don't leave us."
"Stay with us."
With their kin's voices, the shadows engulfed them.
A nameless dread jolted the Angra-class escort's warrior awake.
Goat-horned Cults were known for psychic prowess in body enhancement. He'd joined the warriors leveraging that affinity, but he had one edge over others.
Exceptional crisis detection.
His early warnings had spared him death on countless battlefields.
Once this mission ended, he planned to retire from the warriors and prepare for prophet trials. His gift fell short of true prophets, but with talent, training would suffice.
Anyway, his near-prophetic sense flared abruptly.
He snatched his nearby weapon, channeling psychic power to heighten his senses.
Enhanced ears caught every tiny sound outside the tent.
"So detach this, right?"
"Yep. Pair it with this part, attach, and it'll run right away."
"Got it. Anything else?"
"Grab this too if you're taking it."
Male and female Cult voices conversing casually.
'Watchmen?'
Kin chatting calmly suggested no crisis. Yet his brain's alarm blared.
Get out now.
And crucially: no females in their survivor group.
'…….'
After agonizing, he decided to check personally. Heart pounding, hands shaking, he peeked through the tent flap.
He regretted it instantly.
"Good. This'll do."
Near the half-wrecked shuttle loomed something massive, too vast for a single glance.
A monstrous form he'd never seen, horrific, dismantling shuttles with elongated arms.
"Th-then you'll spare me?"
"I-I worked hard too! Spare me!"
"Damn it! Me too!"
Worse: 'things' on its back. Five ashen Cult faces embedded like boils, wailing for mercy. Some he recognized.
"Told you everything I know! Please...!"
"Quiet."
A smooth feminine voice from the monster's maw silenced the pleas. Its milky white eyes shifted to his tent.
"Saw you, huh?"
Locking eyes, he wished it all a dream.
'Got everything I need.'
Plenty of time before Nightmare Horizon's cooldown ended. Per Sky Mother's scans, I'd circled crash sites, scavenging parts to bolster the new escort's arsenal.
'Stronger armament's always good.'
The tougher the ship, the more weapons I could assimilate and wield.
'Day six today. Launch tomorrow.'
I carried fresh parts and weapons on my back, heading to Saintopia-02 continent.
This was the last stop. Others had cratered too far on distant continents.
'Been a while since I combo'd Mimicry Organ and Faces on Beast.'
Mainstays from the game. In reality, their unpublicized synergy shone too.
'Faces on Beast lets me pick assimilation targets for Mimicry Organ.'
Normally, Mimicry Organ overwrites stored genes on new intake, swapping pheromone targets per meal.
'That's its weakness.'
No willful control over mimic forms.
As bulk grew, mismatches arose; impersonating specifics to fool foes was limited. Tough to main into late game.
'Normally. But...'
Faces on Beast changes everything.
It copies and stores foe genes internally. Questioning them pulled memories too during absorption.
Key: Mimicry Organ accesses those stored genes.
Select one, craft pheromones mimicking that target's form.
'Few know this.'
Only me, combining them. Rare trait anyway; fewer tried both.
'Fooled so many with it.'
Overuse birthed counters: secret codes, fresh bait to overwrite disguises.
They never guessed multi-target mimicry.
'Still has flaws.'
Faces on Beast caps at five genes. Thus, five mimic forms max.
'Wish I could expand that.'
No game method found.
'Might differ here.'
New elements kept emerging; maybe somewhere a way to up Faces on Beast limit.
Musing while swimming, a familiar pulse hit.
No. 26 flapped over, fins waving. Far off on the moonlit beach, Sky Mother and Adhai's tiny forms gleamed.
[Zuz zuzuzu zu (Why'd you come all the way here?)]
Cheerful pulse back. Marine creature at heart, loving the swim.
'Leaving the planet tomorrow.'
Next destination meant scarce swims. Best let her enjoy now.
[Zu zu zuz zu (Come swim together then)]
I savored the planet's final night swim with No. 26.
Amid the pitch-black void of space.
A small ship cleaved through the infinite expanse.
Any space buff would spot the ivory teardrop design as a Cult escape craft.
Experts would note severe damage to the aft FTL drive.
In vast space, no FTL meant dire straits—especially for a pod stocked with mere rations and meds.
Inside the elegant escape craft, two awaited death daily.
"Captain, this is the last of our food."
"Not hungry. You eat."
"Can't do that. You haven't eaten in three days."
They were the captain and crewman who'd fled the imperial mothership Judgment of Damos-08.
Blast waves from the mothership's explosion wrecked their FTL on escape. Stranded mid-void.
The pod flew fast, but sans FTL, reaching Cult space took half a year. Week's rations? Laughable.
Choices: starve or suicide.
"Captain, I promised the others. I'd keep you from dying in vain."
"……."
"Help me keep that promise."
"...Half, then."
As the crewman offered half the ration, the ship lurched to a halt.
"What? Space Dogs?"
"Checking!"
They frantically scanned the console.
"Captain!"
"Someone's tractor-pulling us."
Lucky Cult pickup? Unlikely.
This empty system claimed by no faction—perfect Space Dogs hideout.
"Hah, providence calls us home."
"...We'll fight to the end."
Weapons in hand from the pod's stores. Soon, plasma cutter whined at the hatch.
Gulp.
"...Now!"
Hatch breached, they charged.
Starved days, but the captain was a veteran of countless fields. He summoned his last psychic reserves for attack.
But the foe outmatched. Lithe in white suit, she effortlessly deflected, morphing arm to blade at his throat.
"Urk?!"
"Stand down."
"Captain!"
The crewman was pinned by another foe—a grotesque suit fusing walker and armor.
"We don't surrender to Space Dogs."
"Space Dogs? Do I look like one?"
The captor replied coolly in a chilling soprano. Only now did he see her clearly.
Elite fighter—and a woman. Long horn curving from left temple.
"You're no Cult. Who are you?"
She answered.
"Sihyun Yujin. Here for you, Captain Nern of the Judgment of Damos-08."
"Yujin? The Mega Corp's Yujin Family?"
Mega Corp's Noble Capital, the Yujin Family's former shadow, Sihyun Yujin—come for the failed purge survivors.